The Long Run Read online

  Brother McCann’s eyes bulge. “Yes, oh yes.” He sounds like he’s just won top prize at a raffle. “It certainly would be. Or blood. Yes, of course, blood. Probably more an example of Baptism by Blood. That is, if he hadn’t already been baptized,” he stammers, and stares excitedly at the ceiling. “If little Pundhu bled profusely during the cleansing, he would most certainly have experienced the Christian soldier’s Baptism by Blood. A very good question, Mr. Bradburys, very good.”

  Catching McCann’s excitement, Bug propels his hand and asks if a boy, like Oberstein, has a monkey teddy which he sleeps with at night, would that be a sin or an occasion of sin, a sort of monkey worship? Bug’s always trying to stump other boys, especially Oberstein, who’s the smartest in the class. Brother McCann rolls his eyes so that only the whites are visible. He stares up at the ceiling as if receiving divine intervention.

  “Yes. It could be so. It could be an occasion of sin . . . if the requirements were met.” He reaches for Tracey’s catechism and raises it high. “And what are those requirements, class?”

  “Knowledge and awareness, freedom to choose,” we chant the memorized response.

  “If a boy ignores his rosary, his night prayers, and asks protection of his monkey, treating his teddy as a sort of Hanuman, that would definitely be a sin, a mortal sin, wouldn’t it, Brother? And that little teddy monkey would be an occasion of sin?” Bug cocks his head at Oberstein.

  “Well, let’s ask Mr. Obersteins. Do you worship your little monkey teddy, Mr. Obersteins?”

  “No, Brother McCann, I do not,” Oberstein is much quicker than McCann. “I worship Jesus, Brother.” The words race back to him from a previous lesson. “Jesus, the Son of the living God.” Oberstein is Jewish. Brother McCann wants to make him a soldier in the army of Jesus Christ, but Oberstein wants to stay Jewish, like his father and grandfather. Oberstein memorizes a lot more than the rest of us. He has to, in order to keep McCann off his back. Oberstein is always a step or two ahead of everyone, including McCann.

  “The Son of the living God,” Brother McCann parrots the words. He repeats them again, slowly. Then he stares at the ceiling as if entering a trance. “Peter’s response to Jesus when he inquired, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ Yes. Yes.” He cocks his head but does not look at us. He stares instead at some distant thing he seems to have spied outside the window.

  “Besides, Brother, I gave up my teddy last year. I’m too big for a teddy now.” Oberstein’s cheeks flush as if he’s been slapped.

  “Too big for teddy, Mr. Obersteins, but not too small for the Son of the living God.” He stares off into space for a long time. Then he looks at his watch. “You would all do well to respond as Mr. Obersteins, class. A very fine response. Very eloquent. A divinely inspired response. Worthy of a true disciple. Which I’m sure you will one day become.” He turns, walks to the blackboard and begins writing out our homework assignment.

  Oberstein looks over at Bug, who cocks his head and winks. Oberstein grins, returns the wink and gives Bug the finger. Bug turns away sheepishly. Oberstein has won another round. Lucky for all of us. Oberstein’s really got McCann’s number. He knows how to settle him down, prevent him from flipping out.

  McCann flips out a lot. Almost every day. I watch him spin from the blackboard, as Sullivan is drifting off a bit, grab the metal mission box and rifle it at him. Sullivan ducks, and it hits McCarthy in the forehead. He has a purple lump there now and maybe a dent for the rest of his life. McCann pulls his strap out of his soutane. He has the longest and thickest strap in the Mount. He waves it above his head and charges Sullivan, who jumps from his seat and runs around the classroom. McCann chases after him, striking him—his neck, his shoulders, his back, his face, his arms—wherever the strap strikes, until poor Sullivan falls to the floor, exhausted.

  McCann crouches over him and straps his face. “And do you know why you are being punished, Mr. Sullivans?”

  “Yes, Brother,” Sullivan whimpers. “Because I ducked.”

  “Nooooo, Mr. Sullivans, nooooo! Not because you ducked. Because you were daydreaming, Mr. Sullivans. Daydreaming in my class.”

  “I wasn’t, Brother. Honest,” Sullivan sulks.

  Whack. “But I saw you, Mr. Sullivans. Do not lie. I saw you daydreaming. I saw you with my own eyes.”

  Sullivan moans and weeps loudly. “I was paying attention, Brother. Honest, I was.”

  Whack. “More lying. More deceit, you young devil.”

  “I was listening to you.” More tears.

  “Well, one thing is certain, Mr. Sullivans. One thing is certain. You won’t be daydreaming in this class ever again. Nor will anyone else. Isn’t that right, class?”

  “Yes, Brother McCann.”

  “Good. Very good. That’s what I want to hear, class.” He spins around, slime hanging from the stubble on his chin. His breath comes in quick sharp wheezes. He scans the class. “And does anyone else? Is there another young devil thinks he can get away with daydreaming?” His eyes freeze on Kelly. Instead of shying away, Kelly freezes and lowers his head. But it’s too late. He’s a goner. McCann grabs a fistful of his shirt. He buckles him over the desk top and slaps him hard, bouncing his head off the wood.

  “Look at me when I speak to you, Mr. Kellys,” he screams, spit spraying into Kelly’s face. “Do you think you can get away with it, Mr. Kellys? Do you?”

  Kelly cringes.

  “Well, doooo you? Stand up, sir.” Silence. “Doooo you?”

  Kelly stands up.

  “Do I what, Brother?” Tears drip from Kelly’s cheeks.

  Whack. McCann knocks him back into his desk. “Do you think you can get away with daydreaming?” He screams so loud Kavanagh puts a hand over one of his ears.

  “No, Brother. I don’t, Brother.”

  “Good. Good. Because you will not.” He scans the class. “Nobody will get away with it. Not Mr. Kellys. Not Mr. Sullivans. Not Murphys. Not Brooke. Not Kavanaghs . . . Not anyone. Not anyone. Is that clear, class?”

  “Yes, Brother McCann.”

  “Is that crystal clear, class?”

  “Yes, Brother McCann, crystal clear.”

  “Am I ever going to see another boy daydreaming ever again in this class, boys?”

  “No, Brother McCann. Never again.”

  “And if I do, if I so much as see a boy staring out the window, the strap will come out. What will come out, boys?”

  “The strap will come out, Brother McCann.” Fear of the strap hangs over every class.

  “That’s right. And the boy who feels its sting will feel it until his body is black and blue. Is that clear? Until his body is what color, class?”

  “Black and blue, Brother McCann.”

  Silence.

  “Now, take out your catechisms and answer the assigned questions. And don’t let me hear so much as a peep out of one of you.”

  Silence.

  “You got no right to hit anybody,” Blackie’s voice is low but clear. The words hang in the air long after the sound stops. It’s as if we’ve all stopped breathing.

  McCann turns. He has the face of a mad dog. “Who said that? Who is the young daredevil who said that?” There is froth on his lips.

  Blackie Neville raises his hand. He’s a stocky boy with a curly black afro and tiny black eyes set way back in their sockets. McCann crosses the room, jumps an empty table, his soutane flying. He charges, scattering a row of empty desks, and smacks Blackie on the side of the head with his fist. Blackie’s desk is opposite mine. I can see the greenish white saliva in the corners of McCann’s mouth.

  “What, Mr. Nevilles? What did you say?”

  “Said you got no right to hit somebody.”

  Whack. “What? No what? No right? No right, did you say?” Whack. “You think you’re in charge here, Mr. Nevilles? You think you’re the Brother here?” Whack.

  “No, don’t think I’m—”

  “Good.” Whack. “That’s good, Mr. Nevilles. Because you are not,
sir.” Whack. “You are not in charge, sir.”

  Blackie’s pink plastic glasses fall to the floor. Whack. Left hand. Right hand. Left. Right. “You are not in charge.” Smash. “You will never be in charge. And if I want . . .” Whack. “. . . to strike someone . . .” Whack. “. . . I’ll bloody well do so, Mr. Nevilles.” Whack.

  Blackie is bleeding. From the nose. From the mouth. He crouches in his seat, defeated and crying. I want to go to him and give him a tissue. I want to wash the blood away from his face, his clothes, his books. I want to put my arm around his shoulder and tell him what a brave soldier he is, that what he said was right and true. And I want to whisper to him not to worry, that everything will be fine, that we will all look after him. We will take him to the dorm after class and clean him up and care for him. But I don’t dare move. None of us dares to move. And the silence lasts an eternity.

  2

  * * *

  SOMEONE IS MAKING a soft scratching noise. There are always sounds in the dorm throughout the night, especially creaking bed springs. All the mattresses are old and sag. And the gray blankets that cover them are stale and smell like licorice. But this sound is different. Quietly, so as not to wake anyone, I climb out of my bunk and listen again for the scratching. In the far corner, O’Connor rocks lightly, a squeaky bedspring rhythm. But that isn’t it. From the far side of the dorm, Spencer snores gently, but it isn’t a snoring sound. I scan the dorm for a brother or for Spook, the night watchman, and skulk in the direction of the scratching. The hardwood floor is cold. And there’s always a slight breeze in the dorm, as if the windows are left open. Except for the flickering nightlight at the far end, it is dark. The long shape dividing the room is a row of wooden lockers. I rub my hands and blow on them.

  “It’s a rat. Maybe two,” Blackie whispers from two bunks away. “Could be three.” He speaks only when it’s necessary and says only what’s needed. His curly black head pops in and out of the big window as it always does when he smokes late at night. As I get close, he strikes a match. His face is still swollen from the beating. He grins, flashing a gold tooth, and blows out the match.

  His name is William Jefferson Neville but everyone calls him Blackie because that’s what Brother McCann nicknamed him the first day of class when everyone still thought he was deaf. “You’re black. So we’ll have to call you Blackie,” Brother McCann said to a chorus of laughter. He might easily have been nicknamed Blackie because of his curly hair and his beady black eyes that seem never to close, never to blink. They’re darting eyes, behind pink plastic glasses that rest on a broad nose, and they take in everything. He’s short and sturdy and lives here with us in St. Martin’s, the dorm for junior boys, because when he entered the Mount last year, nobody knew his age.

  He was left at the monastery doorstep and didn’t speak for weeks. For a while everyone thought he was deaf. The rumor is that he’s from the States, New York. Or New Yawk, as Oberstein would say. Oberstein and Blackie are really close. They are the closest in our dorm. We think it’s because they’re both Americans. Oberstein overheard Brother McMurtry, the Superior, telling Brother McCann that Blackie’s mother is a prostitute. McMurtry said a bigwig from Fort Pepperrell, the American military base between Quidi Vidi Lake and the White Hills, came to see him and told him that Blackie’s mother was with a sergeant from Harlem who used to beat Blackie. She came to Newfoundland with Blackie looking for the soldier when he went missing. She found him and left Blackie.

  Blackie’s sure he’ll find his mother if he can just get back to the States. Oberstein wants to write his own mother and ask her to take out an ad in the newspaper, but Blackie says that won’t do any good because his mother can’t read. He says he has to get to New York and find her himself. He knows he will find her if he can only get there. McMurtry put Blackie with our group because our dorm had the most empty beds. Even brainy Oberstein thinks he should’ve been put in St. Luke’s with the senior boys. We all think he’s a lot older. And smarter. Blackie’s a different kind of smart. He’s smarter than everyone except Oberstein, who’s smarter than some of the brothers.

  “Been at it for days. Three, maybe four rats. Could be a nest. Comin’ before the snow. Eatin’ the wallpaper by now, I reckon.” He flicks his cigarette butt out the window and leaps from his upper bunk to the cold hardwood, landing softly on all fours, like a cat. “Comin’ from the closet in the corner. By Ryan’s bunk.”

  I stare at his swollen nose and wonder if it’s broken. In the dark, his skin looks lit from within. It’s the color of Brother McCann’s big mahogany desk.

  “Don’t worry. They can’t get out. It’s locked,” I say, trying to convince myself.

  “Me ’n’ Murphy are headin’ to the bakery for a fresh loaf. C’mon, I’m hungry as a hound.”

  You can say and do a lot of things at the Mount, but one thing you never, ever do is say no to Blackie. So I follow at his heels.

  He slaps Murphy awake and orders him to scout ahead. Murphy wipes the sleep from his eyes and scratches his jugears. Brother McCann always leaves the bakery locked so that the boys can’t get inside until he’s there to supervise them in the morning after seven o’clock Mass. The bakery door is divided into two parts, an upper and a lower that both swing in and out. Both have padlocks. Blackie can pick any lock in the place, and the bakery is his specialty. Murphy and I watch in amazement as he slides a thin piece of wire inside the lock and within seconds pops it. “Thank you, Jesus,” he says. He squints and grinds his teeth, again exposing that beautiful gold tooth.

  “Jesus, Blackie, how do you do it?” Murphy says, as we push through the lower door and inhale the most beautiful smell in the world, Mount Kildare bread, fresh out of the oven.

  “Believe,” Blackie whispers.

  The loaves are all laid out in perfect rows on a long stainless steel table near the cleaned dough mixer. Each loaf consists of three buns. Blackie greedily rips one of the loaves into three parts and passes Murphy and me a hunk. We sink our teeth into the soft dough.

  “How is it, Blackie?

  “Real good. You?”

  “Good. Be perfect if we had a swig of altar wine.”

  “Wine smugglin’s always midweek,” Blackie says. “That’s the rule.”

  Murphy stares at Blackie’s bruised face. “I wish I had the balls to kill McCann,” he says, flashing a side-slanting grin.

  Blackie says nothing. We eat in silence. We are the best of brothers at such moments. We eat slowly, in complete communion. More complete than the sleepy communion we will share at seven o’clock Mass. When Blackie finishes, he lights a cigarette, inhales, and passes it to Murphy.

  “Let’s take a loaf to Bug and Oberstein,” Murphy laughs quickly, showing small white teeth.

  “No,” Blackie snaps. Blackie has a quick temper.

  “It’s too risky,” I say. “Blackie’s right.”

  Occasionally, there is a row of toutons left out. These are lumps of leftover dough deep-fried in chip fat. Dipped in molasses, a touton is an unbelievable treat. Noses are bloodied and sometimes broken over a treasured touton.

  “Our lucky day,” Murphy says, scooping up a handful of toutons in his big hands. Murphy is large-framed and almost six feet tall. Everything about him is big. Big hands, big feet, big freckles, big red head. Big heart. He’s forever running a hand through his straight red hair, a thick shock of which keeps falling in front of his glasses, which are pink plastic like Blackie’s, like every pair at the Mount. An arm of his crooked glasses is held on by hockey tape. His lips are always cracked, so much so that they sometimes bleed.

  “One each,” Blackie says. “Arrange the tray so it looks full. Nobody been at it.”

  Murphy knows better than to question Blackie’s authority. He passes us each a touton and rearranges the tray.

  “A bit of molasses would be nice,” I say.

  Blackie nods a firm no. “Gotta go,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Been ten minutes out. We’re enterin’ the dang
er zone.” There is a creaking noise overhead. We freeze.

  “Spook,” Murphy whispers, meaning the night watchman is on the move. He squints, crinkling the freckles around his eyes.

  We bolt the bakery, a touton in one hand, a hunk of fresh loaf in the other. As always, we take the same route back to the dorm, Murphy scouting ahead, dropping bits of paper along the way to let us know the coast is clear—through the huge dining hall, up the two flights of stairs, past the chapel, down the long dark hall to St. Martin’s dormitory. We head straight for our beds, and I lie there frozen for a long time before eating my touton and the rest of my delicious hunk of fresh loaf. As I eat, I listen for the scratching sound I heard earlier. I want to be able to report to Blackie in the morning whether there are two or three rats or a whole nest in the closet, the place that is soon to be known by everyone at the Mount as the Rat Locker—a small room at the far end of the dorm that the brothers use for storing the big boxes of winter clothes. But there are no scratching sounds to be heard. Only stillness. The long, lonely stillness that will be broken in a few hours by the sound of the ugly buzzer waking all the boys for seven o’clock Mass.

  I’m jittery and can’t sleep, so I get up and go to the fire escape for a smoke. As I open the door to the long tunnel, a musty smell rushes past me. It reminds me of the smell in Dad’s old blue bus. It’s so strong the memories flood back, and I start to cry. I slam the door shut. That smell will always remind me of death. The door makes a sharp click, which rouses Blackie.

  “Whatcha doin’?” he whispers, hopping from his bunk.

  “Nuthin’,” I say.

  “Time is it?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Why you up?” He offers me a piece of touton.

  “Can’t sleep.” We go to the big window at the back of the dorm. Blackie slides the window up and coos gently to the pigeons. He drops a few pieces of bread on the window ledge. But the pigeons are asleep and don’t answer.